


Ribcage

by nestlebars



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: First Person, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, Non Explicit Sex, Theo being gay but refusing to admit it, vague descriptions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 13:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14672514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nestlebars/pseuds/nestlebars
Summary: A morning after, a desk filled with nonsense, and suppressed emotions.'It had been painful, whatever had caused the scar to be made. The red dangerous colour remained years after healing, one that said it still ached if he laid on his side for too long, if he turned a funny way, or if he thought about it too much.'





	Ribcage

We had switched positions during the night, much to my displeasure. The body beneath mine was solid, a rock, quiet and barely moving. That's how he had always slept, never waking unless he believed there was something dangerous on it's way. There never was, most of the time. His sleeping habits hadn't changed much, not since I knew him. Met him. Knew him makes it out as if I no longer know him. I do. I know Boris.  
No longer being able to feel the palm of my hand, I attempted to move it out from underneath him, where I had put him some kind of hold. Back to back was how we slept as kids. That was, unless Boris decided to turn over, nose to my neck.  
It was daylight outside, the sheet over the window doing nothing to hide that. Boris wasn't disturbed by it. But the shine had hit my face, forcing a sound out of me. Hand freed, I pushed myself up and away. The bed sheets came with me, the rustle quieter than Boris' heavy breathing. If cigarettes were going to be the thing that kills him, God is a terrible comedian.  
The room was white, from what I could see. But it seemed Boris had carried on with the childhood habit and hung flags and sheets from the ceilings and walls. It created a cosy environment, meant to shelter and protect. I had asked him once, but he gave me nothing and instead turned it back on me, asking why I had no sheets in our bedroom. I didn't have an answer to that either.  
There was a table, pushed to one side of the room. It couldn't have been used for writing, as there was no room. It was littered with things, Boris things. There was an ache to go and touch them, see what he had collected while he had been gone. From here, I was able to make out books, pieces of paper, a red rubber loop, and money (the currency unknown). What books had he read? Why had he so much paper? Were they forms? Hospital letters? Letters from loved ones, family? It was hard to tell. Even reading them might not give any insight, considering they were very likely to be another language.  
Movement from the bed brought me back, head turning to watch as Boris throw an arm over his face. It was graceless and landed heavily over his head. His breathing told me he was still asleep. As did his lack of complaints when I moved the bed sheets away from him. It left him barely covered, only from his knees downwards was protected. The bare skin I could see was pale, a tan barely showing on his cheeks and the tops of his arms. It was rare to see him so naked, so open. There were marks across him. He wasn't perfection. He never had been. Perfection would be a human body close to that of a greek statue, muscles that made no room for any scars or bumps. Boris, however, was skin and bones that went on and on, stretching out. He had always been that way. A harsh red mark sat below his ribs, never having gotten the time to heal properly. It stuck out of his skin like it was trying to escape. It ran a whole five inches. It hadn't been there when we'd parted the first time. Moving from the edge of the bed and back over, closer, I was now close enough to touch him. But I didn't. I had to reason to.  
I had felt the mark last night, when I had pressed my lips to each rib, leaving a kiss along my trail. My fingers had touched them all first, gotten to the mark and he'd flinched. Boris never flinched, not from me. We'd thrown enough punches to each other that, by now, we barely tensed and took them as they came. The movement had been so small that he probably wasn't aware that it had happened, kept his fingers moving through my hair, eyes up to the ceiling. Open or not, he refused to look down. It had been painful, whatever had caused the scar to be made. The red dangerous colour remained years after healing, one that said it still ached if he laid on his side for too long, if he turned a funny way, or if he thought about it too much. I had one of similar feelings on my lip, much smaller, tiny, impossible to see if you didn't know it was there. The biggest difference was that Boris had made it. This scar was not carved by me.  
I could see it now by the light of day, as opposed to the bedside lamp that barely worked. It had been turned off by Boris after my lips reached his stomach. I could see why he had flinched. I could also see that we had forgotten to wash everything off, the remains left dry on his stomach. Purple hues coloured there too, as well as his hands, circled his wrist too. Those weren't me, no. The one's on the tops of his legs had been, but nothing else. Marks left too much of an impression, meant he would have to look at them, remember what had happened, and hate himself. That's what I often did. I had never been a fan of anyone that bites, but the beer had gotten to me last night and I became what I hated. If Boris agreed, he never voiced this and instead pressed a heel into the bed, stomach stretching as he arched upwards. It didn't look comfortable, from what I could see. Neither of us seemed to care.  
I was due to go back home later that day. The plane left in ten hours and thirty-four minutes, read the clock. I'd been sat looking at Boris for just under twenty.  
Our clothes came off in different places. Mine were by the bedroom door, which still sat wide open, for anyone to walk in and see two men laying in bed together. I would have shut it, had it not been for exhaustion.  
The door didn't shut until all of my clothes were on, shoes tied, bag on my shoulder, wallet found. The money had been taken from it sometime last night, Boris' nimble fingers slipping inside, sticking it in his coat packet no doubt. In return, I took a packet of cigarettes from his desk, justifying it to myself that I would have bought some with my missing money anyway.  
Boris' breathing had told me he'd been awake since I'd dropped gotten off the bed. He still hadn't moved and I hadn't said anything. I still hadn't by the time I reached the front door. 

**Author's Note:**

> Had a three hour train journey to kill.


End file.
